Flowers on the Water by Helen Scott Taylor

Lucy's small florist's van bumped along the rutted lane to Beach View Cottage. It had taken five years before she could visit here without crying. Now another five years had passed, and she sometimes went whole weeks without thinking of her little boy, George, or her ex-husband, Dominic.
    This last week of August, the anniversary of George's death, was the only time she allowed herself to remember.
    A sad smile pulled at her lips as poignant memories of her dear little two-year-old son flooded her mind. The awful tragedy of losing him no longer obliterated the good times that had gone before. But even after all this time, she found it difficult to think of Dominic without anger and resentment.
    She reached the end of the lane where a large gate opened onto a slipway so tourists could launch boats into the ocean. The small parking space for vacationers staying at Beach View Cottage was occupied by an expensive sports car.
    Lucy's lips pinched with disapproval. Some people were just selfish, parking in other people's spaces. Her only option was to park in the turning area by the slipway gate and hope nobody needed access.
    Climbing out, Lucy inhaled a lungful of salty sea air. Mixed emotions swirled through her. She loved the ocean…and hated it. It was beautiful but also powerful and dangerous. That heaving body of water had carelessly snuffed out her innocent little boy's life. She couldn't help attributing it with ill intent, even though she knew that was ridiculous.
    With a catch in her breath, she walked to the back of her van to collect the wrapped bunch of ten lilies from the specially designed rack that held a water reservoir to keep cut flowers fresh.
    Bag strap over her shoulder and lilies cradled in the crook of her arm, she headed through the small gate to the slate-paved path. Beach View Cottage lay at the bottom of some steps, nestled among a riot of shrubs and flowers in a tiny garden above the beach.
    Once upon a time, the old stone building housed a lifeboat that served the local community. When she and Dominic rented the place for a vacation ten years ago, it had been recently converted to a dwelling. Now it was comfortable in its new role. The only hint that it had ever been anything else was the cement ramp, running from the picture window at the front, down to the water's edge.
    Lucy stooped and felt under the blue pot full of geraniums that hid the key. She whipped her hand back when woodlice scuttled out like tiny armadillos. She laid aside her lilies and crouched for a better look. There was definitely no key.
    She rose and glanced around, a hint of unease whispering across her thoughts. In all the years she'd visited, the key had always been under the blue pot. Mrs. Willis never put it anywhere else.
    Recovering her lilies, she continued around the cottage to the back door. A pair of wet, sandy men's shoes rested on the doormat outside. Was it possible the last vacationer hadn't left on time and was still here?
    Soft music filtered out through the open window. Had Mrs. Willis double booked? Lucy knocked on the door, already framing the words she would use to explain her claim to the place.
    Footsteps sounded inside. The door handle turned and the door opened. The air whooshed out of Lucy's lungs. She stumbled back at the sight of the man filling the doorway. "Dominic?" The word whispered over her lips, barely more than a breath. Had she stepped through a time warp and gone back ten years?
    Tall and lean, he towered over her, his hair still thick and unruly, confusion in his hazel eyes. Then she noticed a few gray hairs threaded among the dark brown, and the tiny lines fanning out beside his eyes.
    "Lucy! What're you doing here?"
    Lucy struggled to grab a breath to reply. "I booked the cottage for the week."
    "So did I."
    His hand rose to the back of his head. The familiarity of the gesture snapped her back ten years. She'd purposely wiped everything about Dominic from her mind. Yet his show of confusion